


A Certain Reaction

by youaremyscience



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremyscience/pseuds/youaremyscience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt which asked for "Sherlock being a BAMF. And John getting turned on by it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Reaction

It’s true that in the history of their association, Sherlock has proven himself to be perfectly capable of defending himself in a physical altercation. And it’s also true that this has always produced a certain… _reaction_ in John. But this is the first time he’s been allowed to act on this reaction. The first time that he feels no guilt as his eyes desperately drink in that lithe form twisting, the strength of that lean torso and those thready arms, throwing an elbow that drops the assailant stone cold. The first time that he doesn’t have to hide the way his blood is singing and his skin is tingling with the image of this phenomenal man, this beautiful, strong, capable, flat-out fucking sex on legs.

He maintains some sense of decorum and manages to wait until they’ve wrapped up their business with the police (he stares a bit too long at Anderson to make his erection dissipate). The moment the door to 221B shuts behind them, John is pressing Sherlock against it, working his hands underneath the coat, gripping his hips and pulling the taller man as close to himself as he can manage. Sherlock struggles with this sometimes, doesn’t always want it, can’t always respond, and John is prepared to stop if he needs to stop, but Sherlock’s lips find his and he breathes against his cheek, “I want to, John, I do, _help me get there_ ”, and John’s eyes flutter closed with the delicious task before him.

He’s seeing the Sherlock in front of him and the Sherlock in his mind’s eye, all the times Sherlock saved them (‘Vatican cameos!’ – god, his body, his agility, his _arse_ – this has been John’s go-to image as he’s taken himself in hand a dozen times since then).

John takes Sherlock’s hand and guides him into his bedroom, he needs Sherlock to relax, needs space to show his devotion to this insanely brilliant man. He wants to rip the clothes from Sherlock’s body and push him down and take and take and take. He grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. Sherlock notices his distress, takes John’s hand and places it in his hair. John grips a fistful of silky curls and tugs slightly, Sherlock’s head falling forward onto John’s shoulder, presses his impossible lips against John’s hammering pulse.

Sherlock always knows what John needs, of course he does, because John is endlessly readable. But he’d been very surprised to learn that John knew Sherlock’s needs just as well. John doesn’t rush when he clearly needs to, when he’s been sublimating this arousal for over an hour – much longer than that, if they’re being honest. It’s this more than anything else that makes Sherlock eager to give to John. This time it was Sherlock’s action that saved them, but there are far more instances of John’s fists, his ‘command voice’, those blunt, calloused fingers around the grip of his gun, his arm steady and straight and the steel in his eyes (heart-stopping, Sherlock loses his breath at that look, at the knowledge of what John would do for him, what John _can_ do).

Sherlock’s body starts to respond, John’s skin so close and hot and starting to bead with sweat. He pulls away, mourning for a second the loss of the grounding sensation of John’s hand fisted in his hair, coaxes John’s fingers to start undoing his buttons, Sherlock’s hands at John’s belt, all need for slowness vanished, Sherlock on his knees, John is so hard (for Sherlock, that’s for me, for _me_ ) and he gives John no time to protest. Sherlock will admit his technique needs some work (this is all new, it’s fantastic, constant stream of new data every time) but he wants to feel John in his mouth, wants John’s hands back in his hair, wants to make him gasp and moan (he’s not loud enough, he’s never loud enough, Sherlock is determined to _make him_ be loud).

John marvels at the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, the plane of his torso, those collarbones, the shock of dark hair falling into his face as he moves, and he grips Sherlock’s shoulders, gently pushes him away, gives him no time to complain, pulls him up and pushes him back onto the bed, shucking his trousers off with no finesse at all, but he doesn’t care, it doesn’t matter, because Sherlock is arching his back and grabbing whatever part of John he can reach, and he’s fully hard now, and it’s glorious, every time it’s shocking and fascinating (I did that, _I did that for him_ ). Now that he’s sure this is what Sherlock wants to do, he can’t slow down, his kisses against Sherlock’s chest are rough and sloppy, he’s straddling Sherlock’s hips, pushing his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth, pushing those spit-soaked fingers into Sherlock one at a time until he’s gasping and clutching at John, wrapping those ridiculous legs around John’s thighs, drawing him in. There’s a high-pitched whine building in the back of Sherlock’s throat and John’s sole mission becomes making that sound come tearing out of him, and he succeeds with a sharp snap of his hips in perfect counterpoint to his hand on Sherlock’s cock, and as the sound of Sherlock coming washes over John, he can’t hold back, and he finishes with his face in Sherlock’s neck, his tongue collecting beads of sweat from his skin.

Neither of them makes any effort to move, Sherlock’s arms wrapped tightly around John’s back and John’s breath evening out. Neither one has admitted it, yet, but this is their favorite part – the moments when they don’t speak, because they don’t need to.

Finally John tilts his face up to Sherlock, who claims his mouth for a lazy kiss, the corners of his own mouth quirked up in a smile that won’t fade. He huffs a laugh and John pulls back slightly, eyebrow up. “Nothing, just… perhaps I should engage in hand to hand combat more frequently.” John chuckles, tucks his head beneath Sherlock’s chin, tightens his grip on Sherlock’s bicep. “I should probably object to that line of reasoning.”

Sherlock smiles, fully, genuinely, buries it in the top of John’s head. “Yes. You probably should.”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by the lovely Cali (consultingdepressive.tumblr.com)


End file.
